Discomfort and Laughter

Sometimes, others will laugh at your discomfort. I don't know why they do it. Maybe your discomfort causes them discomfort and then they involuntarily release uncomfortable chuckles. Maybe they do it in hopes of placating your discomfort. Maybe they're just ass-hats. Or maybe it's something else entirely. But it has never sat right with me--people laughing at my discomfort. Even if it's well intended. Even if they don't realize that I'm uncomfortable. In fact, the laughter often causes a greater upset than the initial reason for discomfort.

Lots of things make me uncomfortable. And I don't care if it's the presence of cotton balls that's making me uncomfortable: my feelings are valid and no one should laugh at them.

Now, I have a couple of stories to share with you.

First. Two summers ago, I started two jobs, both in retail. I worked in a bra shop and a bookstore. And, at both jobs, I started having a lot of panic and anxiety attacks. At the bra shop, I would be working in the back room, unpacking boxes of lingerie, when I would hear a pair of heels stomping towards me. Immediately, I would feel a very genuine fear--almost a panicky certainty--that I was about to be beaten. Similarly, when a mistake would be brought to my attention at the bookstore, I was genuinely scared that I would be hurt. In fact, I worked at the bookstore for about 16 months and, even during my last week there, if I made a mistake I was nervous that I would be yelled at. And none of these fears were grounded. None of my bosses gave off a particularly violent vibe and only one manager ever even raised his voice at me.

I'm not sure why, but I mentioned this anxiety to a counselor at one point. She asked, understandably, if there was any trauma from my childhood that might explain these panic attacks. No. There wasn't anything I could think of. My parents are some of the kindest people in the world! But the next time I was home, I asked my parents if there was anything that might have happened when I was a child that could have caused my anxiety about being beaten. I wondered if, perhaps, I was scream-scolded at by a stranger or left with a mean babysitter. My mother just replied a confused "No" but my father asked, dumbfounded, "You were scared of being beaten?" And I nodded. For months I'd been struck with a sincere fear of being hurt. And my father, my kind well-meaning father, laughed.

"That's crazy!" He said, and then quickly clasped a hand over his mouth and giggled an apology.

Now, I don't mean this story to mean about my dad. My dad is awesome. He's funny and talented and, like I said, my parents are some of the kindest people on the planet. So, why am I telling basically anyone who has access to the internet and the capability to stumble upon my blog that my father one time laughed at my trauma? Here's why: if someone is going through something that doesn't make sense to you, it's very easy to view that experience as a work of fiction. Being cat-called might seem like a silly nuisance when you've never been cat-called, when in reality it can be intensely frightening and frustrating. Being scared of the grocery store might seem like an absurd overreaction, when in reality the individual has frequently found it difficult to breathe when looking at a wall full of cereal. It's easy to not understand someone else's anxiety, depression, fear, or anger. But, maybe the ideal is understanding. And if you can't understand, you can at least acknowledge that what they're going through sucks, and, even if you don't understand it, that it's a valid experience.

Second. I don't like being touched. If I have warning, I might enjoy a hug. But that's about it. My body will shudder away when someone places their hand on my back and I feel angry repulsion when I'm grabbed without warning. Now, I tell you this because I want you to know that even when people are touching me with in attempts to comfort me or show me affection, I can be extremely uncomfortable. My body is my own, don't touch, okay?

Not too long ago, someone pinched my butt. This individual is someone I care about and I'm sure he didn't mean it in a pervy-boss inappropriate sort of way. I tell you this not to justify his action, but to justify my own. Had someone on the street grabbed my ass, I would have flipped around a punched him. But instead, I jumped up--startled--and was flooded with uncomfortable and anxious thoughts. Another person (who I care about) was standing right by me when it happened, and she giggled, "What happened?"

I froze. In a very childlike I-don't-want-to-get-anyone-in-trouble I-just-want-to-pretend-nothing-happened I-am-so-uncomfortable what-am-I-supposed-to-do sort of way. I remember thinking, "This is why people have such a hard time telling someone when they've been assaulted." At 22, I had difficulty talking about the fact that my butt had been pinched--I cannot imagine how anyone (especially children) ever musters the courage to tell someone when they've been seriously abused. But man am I proud of those who do.

Back to my story, as I am frozen in discomfort, both people I'm with are laughing. The woman asks, "Did he pinch your bottom!" and I say an irritated, "Yes" which just makes them both laugh more. And now, some time later, I'm still sick about the whole exchange. First because the initial incident bothered me, but then also because my embarrassment, anxiety, and anger were laughed at by these people who "care about" me. So there are two morals here. First, don't touch people. Unless you ask them and they say you can. And if you're not comfortable asking them "Hey can I pinch your butt?" maybe it's because you fucking shouldn't be pinching their butt. Second, if someone is embarrassed, uncomfortable, and angry about something, don't laugh at them. Giggling about the fact that you made them uncomfortable will not make them comfortable. If you do something and you can see that it's upset someone, apologize. I don't care why you did what you did or how you think they should respond to your actions. You caused them to be upset, so you owe them an apology.

Third. Now, I've already told you that I don't particularly enjoy being touched. This is important to my third story, too. This past weekend, my grandparents were in town. When they were leaving, my grandmother came into my room to tell me goodbye. (This in its own right bothered me. I had already told her that my room was crowded and messy because there's just not enough room in it so I didn't want her to go into my room. But it's okay, she was telling me goodbye, so I let it slide.) So, I stood up to give her a hug.

Now, my grandmother is a kisser. You know in movies when you see that kooky old woman who insists on kissing the uncomfortable children? So then, like, the little boy in the striped shirt is like, "Aw, man, Aunt Vern is coming to visit? But she always kisses me and pinches my cheeks!"? I'm pretty sure they modeled that character after my grandmother.

So, my grandmother goes to kiss my cheek. And, normally, I would let her. But I'm feeling a little uncomfortable and I'm well past socially exhausted at this point so I tell my grandmother, "Oh, no, I have ointment on my face." Which isn't a lie. I did have ointment on my face, the sort of ointment that does some good but means I need to use loads of chapstick so my lips don't flake off. And she goes, "Oh well I don't care!" And goes to kiss my cheek again. And I say, "No you should," I dodge her kiss, and I give her a hug. In the process, she steps on my foot. And it really hurt.

Anyway, I follow my grandmother out to the kitchen so I can tell my grandfather goodbye and she announces, "Don't kiss Katrina she's got ointment on her face and DON'T step on her foot" in a mocking laugh-filled way. Sure. Maybe it seemed silly to her that I didn't want her to kiss me, and maybe it seemed silly to her that I reacted to a little old woman stepping on my foot. (Regarding the latter, it's now three days later and I still have a bruise from where she stepped on my foot. She might be a little old woman but she is far from frail.)

But that moment of mockery, has me frustrated still. In part, I want to say there isn't really a moral to this last story. That it's mostly just complaining. But I think that, maybe there is a moral here. Don't mock the people that you love. This is one that I'm going to expand upon a lot in a later blog post. I've started thinking about it, writing it, and trying to piece together what I want to say. But, in short, when someone is acting a little off, they're probably easy targets for annoyed mockery. But also, they're probably acting a little off because they are a little off. If someone isn't acting like themselves, it's likely that they are going through something internally. And maybe, if you care about them, you should lay off.